


About Time

by Naralanis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cissamione, F/F, Narcissa is an idiot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, a teeny sprinkle of angst, like teeny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26237500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 238





	About Time

“One of these days, Granger, one of these days...”

Hermione’s laughter is almost lost to the din of the party—these Ministry functions always drew in quite a rowdy crowd—but Narcissa zeroes in on the sound almost automatically, as if her body has been conditioned to seek the young witch out no matter where or when. 

That’s how she catches it—an innocent gesture, really, but she still feels it like a punch in the gut. Hermione is playfully squeezing Draco’s arm as she laughs. It’s not a  _ yes  _ gesture; it’s not even a  _ maybe,  _ not with the way the hand holding her champagne flute puts some space between them.

_ But it might as well be confirmation,  _ Narcissa thinks, ignoring the ache in her jaw when she grits her teeth a little too hard. 

It’s hardly fair of her to be this upset, this  _ possessive  _ of something—someone—that doesn’t belong to her. Not in the way she wants. And of course, there’s just no way for Hermione to know how her little harmless flirtation is anything  _ but  _ harmless when it comes to Draco, because Hermione simply has no idea that Draco is completely infatuated with her. 

It hurts, to carry this secret, entrusted to her so innocently by a son who only recently begun taking the tentative, painful steps to mend their fractured family after the war. Narcissa turned her back on Lucius, on her old alliances—she  _ lied  _ to the Dark Lord’s face, all for her son, to save him from further pain, and now? Now she carries secrets like ticking bombs in her bare hands.

Hermione sidles up to her about an hour later, at the balcony overlooking the dancefloor. She expertly and kindly extricated herself from Draco’s attentions—Narcissa saw her grace and poise in doing so, and her heart aches because aren’t those just the things that make Hermione so special to not one, but two members of the Malfoy family?

“Hi there. You’ve been gone a while.”

All Narcissa can give her is a tight smile in response. Watching Draco interact with the brunette always feels like a knife twisting deep in her gut. It’s a reminder she’s on borrowed time—always has been, with Hermione, because it is only a matter of time until someone better, more worthy, someone like Draco or any of the other young men fawning over Gryffindor’s Golden Girl comes in to whisk her away. 

Hermione cocks an eyebrow and hums at Narcissa’s poignant silence, likely already aware of what weighs in her mind. She takes another step and a hand comes to rest at the Slytherin’s waist. The touch is light, gentle even, but there is something about the way Hermione’s fingers twitch over the fabric of Narcissa’s robes that reads as possessive, and Narcissa has to fight to ignore the fire it ignites in her belly. 

It also does nothing to quieten the fury of her guilt, and Hermione knows this—she knows it and, oddly, seems to  _ revel _ in it. 

“I was thinking,” the brunette speaks again after a dainty sip of her champagne and a furtive glance around the room. “We could... get out of here?”

If her tone wasn’t suggestive enough, the flex of her fingers on the flesh of Narcissa’s hips certainly is. It sends a jolt down her spine, and as much as she wants to quell this fire, Narcissa knows all too well that she is absolutely and utterly powerless. She is  _ weak _ , Hermione made her  _ weak _ —at the knees, her mind, her  _ heart _ . Narcissa could never do anything but buckle—and willingly, oh so willingly—under Hermione’s weight, figuratively and literally. 

“We can’t keep doing this.”

Narcissa wishes her voice held more conviction. She wishes she had been able to say  _ I can’t keep doing this _ , because she’s the one who holds the cards here—she's the one with the power, even though Hermione makes her powerless. 

The only response the brunette deigns to give her is a disapproving tut—a displeased little sound that comes with the soft grazing of teeth upon Narcissa’s neck. Narcissa wants to pull away—no she doesn’t, yes, she does, no she  _ doesn’t _ — but she’s frozen in place, drifting as Hermione drags her into her orbit. 

Her eyes inevitably find Draco, weaving through the dancing crowd below them, and that pang of guilt renews itself in her chest. Hermione follows her gaze, and the annoyed scoff she releases is a surprise to Narcissa.

“Don’t tell me,” the brunette says, and the derision in her voice is something altogether new. “We can’t keep doing this because of Draco dearest.”

Narcissa bristles—she can’t help it, not when her son’s name is uttered in that way, but Hermione doesn’t give her the opportunity to respond. 

“I must be quite the catch, if two Malfoys want me so badly. Should I pay dear old Lucius a little visit in Azkaban, see if I can go three for three with you lot?”

Narcissa spins in the witch’s grip; she  cannot conceal her anger as it burns in tears behind her eyelids. 

“You know—you  _ knew _ ,” she accuses, voice low and dangerous. “You  _ knew  _ Draco is in love with you, and you still pursued  _ me.” _

Hermione’s eyes grow dark, her lips tighten into a thin line. When she speaks, it is through a snarl. 

“Why the  _ fuck  _ should I care about what Draco wants, Narcissa?”

Narcissa backtracks, even as she shivers at the expletive. She tries to extricate herself from Hermione’s grip, and that proves fruitless. “He’s my son,” she says, as if that little fact explains everything. “My only child.”

“Congratulations,” Hermione quips sarcastically. “I still don’t care.  _ You _ are the one I want, Narcissa. Not  _ Draco.  _ Not anyone else.  _ You _ .”

“You shouldn’t,” Narcissa shakes her head, because that doesn’t make  _ sense. “ _ You shouldn’t. I’m... I’m not right for you.”

Hermione barks out an incredulous laugh. “And  _ Draco  _ is?” She sounds exasperated. “No offence, baby, but your son’s a prick.”

“You’d be good together,” Narcissa insists, ignoring the name-calling, because the more she thinks about it, the more  _ sense  _ it makes. Draco and Hermione just... match. They’re both stubborn, incredibly intelligent, talented beyond belief, and would make an altogether stunning couple. “You’d be a good match—you'd... challenge one another, you’d look good together.”

Hermione’s eyes are wide, almost comically so, awash in disbelief and anger. “Narcissa,” she hisses, but Narcissa keeps talking. 

“You should give him a chance,” she continues, words coming out of her mouth before she can even begin to think about stopping the barrage. “I know he would be good to you, and I  _ know  _ you’d certainly be good to him. Think about...”

“ _ Stop.” _

Narcissa does stop then, because she notices something unexpected, and that throws her off completely. Hermione’s grip has tightened to be borderline painful, but what takes the wind out of her sails is the rare and vexing sight of tears pooling at Hermione’s eyes. 

“I  _ know  _ you want me, Narcissa. And I want you. Why the hell is Draco in this equation?”

Narcissa feels struck dumb. “He’s my son.”

That disbelieving laugh is there. Hermione releases her, only to wipe at the tears that now run down her cheeks. “I know. Again,  _ why  _ is he a part of this?”

Narcissa can only stare, because it’s  _ obvious,  _ why can’t Hermione see the obvious? She vowed to never hurt Draco ever again—how can Hermione ask her to break his heart like this?

Hermione straightens in the face of Narcissa’s silence, and her hazel eyes have turned to glass. 

“You have a choice, Narcissa—and it’s simple maths. You either break one heart—Draco's—or you break  _ three.  _ Because if you think Draco and I would get together just because you choose to end this —” she waves across the space she’s put between them — “you are  _ sorely  _ mistaken.”

Narcissa wants to speak, she does, but finds she just... can’t. 

“What about what  _ you  _ want, Narcissa? What about what  _ I  _ want? Draco is a grown man. When are you going to stop living for him and start living for  _ you,  _ now that you finally, finally have the chance?”

Narcissa is an idiot—a complete and utter idiot. It’s like something clicks in her brain at Hermione’s words, at her tears, and it doesn’t completely erase the guilt she feels, but it does push it to the back of her mind, instead of the forefront. She glances back at where Draco charms the crowd in the ballroom below. 

She hears a sniffle behind her—Hermione is still wiping at tears. She doesn’t turn to face her, not yet, because she wants to give her son one last look before she tries—and tries and tries again, for however long it takes—to erase that guilt. 

How many nights with Hermione has she wasted wallowing in it? How many touches and caresses were enjoyed as if they were illicit, hurriedly, secretly, guiltily?

“Make up your mind, Narcissa.”

She registers Hermione walking away just as Draco’s eyes lock with hers when he glances up. He gives her a smile and a wave, and in that very moment, Narcissa decides it’s about time. 

She returns his playful wave with a quick smile of her own as she turns away. Before Hermione has turned the corner, Narcissa runs after her. 


End file.
